Apology
by travln1
Summary: Post Wilson's Heart. Spoilers. A series of vignettes, title says it all. House, Wilson friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Apology, Vignette 1

No outside noise filtered in; the only sound pulsing through his mind was the ache of his heartbroken soul. He stopped counting the rows as he neared the pulpit, not seeing the many faces glancing his way, nor hearing the murmurs as he passed. He didn't see his co-workers, or her family, or his team. He didn't see him off to the side, slumped in the wheelchair with his cane stretched from arm rest to arm rest. He didn't glance at the IV drip, or the way she monitored his breathing, his pulse. He had no idea that she had forbidden him to come, yet he had; he was unaware that he had insisted.

He took his seat in the first row, opposite the aisle from her parents. He sat alone. He cast his eyes downward, silently in prayer, wishing he could be anywhere else at that very moment. He knew she lay in the closed casket, wearing her favorite blue skirt and matching cardigan, her pearls draped around her neck solemnly. He knew he'd never hear her voice again. He knew the make-up left her looking vacant, unable to hide the visual reminder of what caused her demise.

He didn't hear the start of the organ, or the shuffle of feet as family and friends filled the seats behind him. He paid no mind to the empty seats on either side of him, empty like the hollow beating of his heart. He hadn't heard the light smack of a hand batting at another from the back. He hadn't heard her protests. He hadn't heard the off kilter thump of a gimpy stride accented by the squeaky trill of the IV stand as he approached.

He kept his gaze facing forward, not acknowledging the looming presence beside him, not seeing the pressed shirt or respectful tie. He heard the sound of a deep, ragged sigh, fraught with apology at his side while simultaneously feeling a firm hand on his shoulder. In recognition, he did not flinch, nor pull away; he simply accepted his presence.


	2. Chapter 2

I've decided to turn the oneshot, "Apology", into a series of vignettes. I thought I was done writing for a while, but it's summer, Sept. 2 is a long way off and I can't seem to get the finale out of my brain. Some will be quite short, most will be passing moments, though I have an idea for one that will likely be a bit longer. No idea how many vignettes are to come, depends on how many ways I can imagine an apology. Enjoy….

Vignette 2

He strolled down the hall eyes unfocused, his heart elsewhere. It had been two weeks since her funeral, three since the crash. Work kept him busy, though he mindlessly performed his duties. Death held a greater hold on him now, perhaps empathizing with families a little too much when time was nigh; he would sit back, hidden in a corner or just outside the glass as he'd watch a husband or wife, lover, friend, mother or father guide a loved one into the depths of encroaching eternity. He became fascinated by the dedication, the love, the sacrifice, while at the same time it left him feeling empty, exhausted.

As he neared his office, he felt deflated having just witnessed the loss of a child, barley eight years young. He wanted to curl up and sleep with her beside him. He wanted to relax in her embrace as her voice drowned out the memory of a little one lost in the burgeoning daybreak of life. He wanted to sit in the comfort of _his_ friendship, but he would not allow himself that luxury, doubting the normalcy it would provide. He had not seen nor heard _him_ since the funeral. He pushed the thought aside as he approached his office door, unaware he was being watched by a pair of remorseful eyes.

He opened his door, not looking up from his shoes. He removed his lab coat, placed it on the coat tree, glanced out the window at the cloudy sky and moved towards his desk. As he peered down at the desk top, he found himself staring at a freshly made turkey sandwich, just as he liked it; extra mayo, no mustard, pickle on the side, bag of potato chips and an ice cold soda. And as he had every day that week, he debated if he should eat the peace offering, and just like the day prior, and the one before that and the one before that, he took a grateful bite.


	3. Chapter 3

BSEVER…oh I agree and I explored Wilson's guilt in "Missing, Alt. Ending". I definitely don't see Wilson as a complete innocent in the finale, though I do think he feels betrayed/let down by House. House has some well earned guilt too, I think.

I have this mapped out now but I don't want to say how this will end. There will be six, possibly seven vignettes.

Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing! And if you didn't know…House won't be starting up Sept. 2. They've pushed it back now to Sept. 16 (poop).

**Apology, Vignette 3**

He stretched his hand out over the empty side of the bed and sighed, remembering the way her hair once graced the pillow, aching for her now absent hand that usually draped across his chest, afraid of forgetting the way her cold toes intermingled with his in the early hours of the morning.

He opened the closet door and glanced at the nearly empty space, her clothes long gone. He thumbed through the perfectly ironed shirts, briefly pausing over the lavender one she liked so much. No, it wouldn't do, perhaps never again, instead choosing a standard, boring blue with the matching striped tie. Safe, unassuming, doctorly.

He drove the speed limit, careful to take the streets he knew the bus did not, avoiding both the intersection of her death and any visual reminders of what once was. Pulling into the parking lot, he sighed deeply, gathering his courage to once again face the cancer ridden, the halls she once roamed and the elevators he feared would find himself in close proximity to him. He gathered his bag, leaving his wallet in the car; it was no longer needed, his lunch always on his desk at the appropriate time.

He sighed in relief upon exiting the elevator, avoidance was key. He opened his door and found his desk laden with ties. Five ties, all of them sensibly chosen; each matched his wardrobe. Safe, unassuming, doctorly and placed at the point of each tie, sat a matching pocket protector. Where he managed to find matching pocket protectors, he had no idea but the gift nearly brought a smile to his face. Nearly.

He couldn't be bought and now somewhat disheartened, he wrapped the apology into a ball and placed it inside his bag, hopeful. For the time being however, nothing had changed; he didn't feel right donning such acts of friendship.


	4. Chapter 4

Apology, Vignette 4

He was afraid of forgetting what she looked like, but visual reminders made his heart ache, his mind hurt. Every last picture had been stowed away, too painful for him to revisit on a daily basis. He stood from his office chair and glanced at the spot he had first truly noticed her. He'd seen her before, but hadn't noticed given the sheer number of fellows competing for the coveted three spots; it wasn't until that afternoon when she had slipped through his office on some secret, covert mission that he had truly taken notice of her. Now he can't quite define her facial features, only able to remember a faint outline and the golden swish of her hair.

Six weeks. Six weeks since he held her last.

Approaching the clinic desk, he reached for a patient file, ready to begin his shift. The nurse looked up at him in confusion, shaking her head.

"You don't have duty," she said as he looked on in confusion. She motioned towards the exam area, "He will be covering for you this week and next."

Wilson focused his gaze across the way and for a fraction of a second, their eyes met from across the way; in that instant, he caught the quick glance at his tie and he saw the unmistakable look of dejection before he turned towards his next clinic patient.

He thanked the nurse, unsure of what to do with his apologetically given time and headed towards the oncology wing, impressed.


	5. Chapter 5

Apology, Vignette 5

Two months. He stood at the closet perusing his choices when his fingers found the ties. He fingered them, pulling the bluest apologetic gift from the lot and wrapped it around his neck. It was time. Her smell no longer lingered on her pillow, and though the pain of that night was a constant reminder, it was time. He missed him just as much as he missed her and that was an ache he needn't live with.

Upon entering the conference room, four fellows looked up in shock; his presence unknown there for a little over six weeks. Consults were filtered through Foreman or Kutner, the only two willing to ferry messages back and forth, otherwise he had become a ghost in diagnostics.

"Uh, he's not here," Taub said, a confused expression touching one side of his mouth.

Wilson raised his eyebrows at the unexpected news and turned to leave.

Kutner stood and before Wilson could get away, he said, "He won't be in for two months, possibly longer. He's taken a leave of absence; something about California."

He nodded, ashamed at not knowing this information. He wondered if he had overlooked just how much that night had affected him; he wondered if he was okay. He wondered why he himself couldn't have worn one of the damned ties when clearly he had reached out to him with his various apologies. He hoped that he had gone on a vacation, a visit and certainly not for some other pained purpose. He knew his parents lived in California and hoped he had not left under dire circumstances.

* * *

Fully expecting him to come questioning, she looked up at him, "He's okay." He remained standing, unable to look her in the eye, afraid to ask.

"He's taken leave, something about seeing the California coast and living life. I think he needed a break," she paused, wishing he'd look her in the eye, "He'll be back."

* * *

Despite his absence, he continued to find his daily lunch. He found his mind wandering now, straying from his usual reminiscences of her. His mind wandered to thoughts of him and what he was doing, if his leg could handle the rigors of such a trip, how he might handle the difficulty of walking in sand, if his parents were well, if he was mentally stable.

Several weeks passed, with no word, nor mention of his one time friend. He was distinctly aware of the new ache resonating deep within, not quite replacing the ache of losing her, but a new pain in knowing he was not conveniently, safely, next door writing on the whiteboard or catnapping in his office. Though he still harbored confused and angry feelings surrounding that night, he distinctly caught himself wishing he was there, perhaps even barging into his office and plunking himself down on the couch uninvited, like old times.

* * *

It had been six weeks since he'd been gone; eight since he'd seen him dutifully performing clinic duty in his stead. It was an apology not bought, but given in time and effort; an effort he had not fully understood until he was gone. And he finally came to see that he missed him, and not just since he'd last seen him, but rather since that night.

And he missed her too, her memory ever present, though the sharp sting of her absence began to wane, leaving a dull ache in its stead.

* * *

Three months since he last held her. Three months since he shared words with him. He wished he could forget that day. He wished that science fiction wasn't so full of fiction, imagining what good use he could put a time machine to. He contemplated going home, unable to focus on work as he entered the main lobby. Lunch now served as a daily reminder that he too was gone, not permanently, but noticeably so.

He routinely hung his jacket, donned his lab coat and set his bag down before positioning himself at his desk, upon which he found a rather large, manila parcel. Eyebrows raised, he pondered its source and flipping it right side up, he noted a very familiar scrawl. The return address simply read, "Costal Cottage, Point Reyes, CA".

Using a letter opener, he sliced through the edge of the oversized envelope and turning it upside down, he watched as a dozen or more orange canisters fell atop his desk, all filled with varying amounts of shiny, white pills. Not needing to, but doing so anyway, he glanced at several of the labels and as expected, all were prescribed by him, the newer ones by Cuddy.

As he set the envelope down, a small slip of paper escaped, on which a simple note existed, "No Voldemort here."


	6. Chapter 6

I luv ewansmile…no, this originally started off as a oneshot (just the first chapter) and I never went in to change the "Complete" to "IP"…forgot. Sorry about that! Nope, never meant he committed suicide. So sorry for the mix up!

Hazmatt…I wasn't directly referring to Harry Potter. In the season 3 episode "Words and Deeds", House refers to his rehab guard as "Voldemort".

As always, thanks for reading and reviewing. I would respond to reviews individually but for some unknown reason, my computer won't allow me to do that with ff replies, but I do appreciate the feedback.

I had a really hard time with this ending. I had about four different scenarios running about my brain, including a rather ridiculous one in which Wilson went out to CA to retrieve House, but I wanted a simple ending. Hope you enjoy it…

**Apology, Vignette 6, Final Vignette**

Four months. Four months since she had passed; four months since he had last spoken to him. He inserted his key into the door and turned the lock, exhausted. His only desire to crawl into bed and sleep until he was sick of sleeping, until the pain of the past four months melted.

He opened the door and noted an indistinguishable air of change. Glancing around, he hesitantly checked visually for any possible intruders but then remembered the locked door; no forced entry, windows were locked tight. It was then he first detected the slight scent of kung pao chicken. Had it been so long since he last had Chinese food that his senses imagined the smell of it? He couldn't initially recall the last time he'd tasted such a delight, but then a long forgotten memory resurfaced, of two friends eating out of cartons, watching television; a fond memory nearly forgotten.

With trepidation, he hobbled over to the coffee table and stared in disbelief at the apology laid about before him. All his favorites sat in familiar boxes, kung pao chicken, egg rolls, pork fried rice and those steamed pork buns Wilson hated so much. Wilson. Wilson.

He stood upright, gripping his cane in anticipation, anxiety, fear. Fear of forgiveness; fear of not being forgiven. Turning to face the kitchen, he saw him standing with two cans of Coke tucked under one arm and a pair of forks in the other, waiting, hoping. Neither moved, neither spoke. Eyes locked in an apologetic dance, each willing the other to take the lead; each hoping the thin ribbon of reforged gossamer on which they now tread, would not break.

Wilson stepped forward, placing the items on the coffee table before standing nearly face to face with House, gaze not once breaking.

House fumbled with his cane, "I…I'm."

Wilson shook his head, cutting him off, "So am I."

He noted his friend's tired expression, but beyond that he also noted the slightly rounded, younger expression, an expression lacking the heaviness of drug use. His complexion sported a healthy hue, one he had not seen since before the infarction. Earlier, he watched as his friend limped into the apartment with a heavy gait, likely due to the adjustment to his new meds, though the oppressed weight of vicodin no longer lingered about him.

"Did you really?" he asked, still unbelieving at such a gift.

House nodded.

Wilson admired his friend, his best friend, and he felt his eyes swell with tears of gratitude; gratitude towards his friend's apologetic gestures, and even more so in knowing that his friend was here. Alive.

"I'm going to hug you," Wilson half whispered, testing this new found reforgement.

"I know."

And he did. He hugged him tight, with four months worth of regret and sorrow, anger, frustration, guilt, relief and love and in return, he received the greatest apology possible. House hugged back.


End file.
